


Angels, Roses, and Rain

by JCF



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, childhood angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-22 11:01:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6076884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JCF/pseuds/JCF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been nine weeks since Mary's death and Dean needs comfort from his father</p>
            </blockquote>





	Angels, Roses, and Rain

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Winchesters, Mike, or Kate. They are the amazing brain children of Eric Kripke and the writing team of Supernatural.
> 
> This fanfic not new. I originally wrote it back in 2006, and it was originally posted it on fanfiction.net. I like to think my writing has improved a bit since I wrote this, but it was my first, and currently only, fanfic written from John's point of view, and I'm quite proud of it. I do hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

I lay my head down on the pillow. A silent sigh escapes me. The events of the last few days have me exhausted. I can only handle so much of, "I'm so sorry for your loss" and "Mary was a good woman". Sure, it's nice to know people care, but it's getting redundant. Mike and Kate have been more than helpful. Despite the familiarity of their ranch and the fact we've been here for almost two months, it feels strange, the lack of traffic, the smell of the grass, and the moon being the only light at night. It makes everything all that much more real.

To say that everything is taking its toll on me is an understatement. How everything is affecting the boys I can't tell. Dean still refuses to talk or leave Sam's side for longer than what it takes him to go to the bathroom.

I roll onto my side. My eyes focus on the shadow of the tree outside the window; I watch its arms extend, its fingers curl, reaching for something just beyond it's grasp, something it will never claim. I swallow, close my eyes and like that tree, grasp. I grasp for sleep. It starts to come, when I hear what sounds like bare feet at the bedroom door.

"Daddy…" The small, still voice of my eldest son comes from the doorway. My heart skips. That word is the first I've heard from my son in nine weeks. I sit up and look to the small four year old standing just outside the doorway.

"I can't sleep," is the next thing out of his mouth. He looks at me, his hazel eyes silently asking to come in.

I pat the bed beside me. "C'mere." He walks in and climbs up onto the bed next to me. I wrap my arms around his small frame. He still smells of baby powder from the bath I gave him before dinner. "What's wrong, Dean?"

I do my best to keep my shock and relief at bay. Dean has finally approached me on his own, not because I've asked him to. And he needs me to be his father, to be here to listen and comfort him.

"I miss Mommy," Dean answers, his voice quiet and small.

I turn my face away to hide a cringe. I take in a silent breath. "I miss her too."

Dean is silent for several short moments before he looks up at me. "Does Mommy miss us like the way she used to?"

Memories take me back to the days Mary would go grocery shopping or out with her girlfriends. She'd come home to a bear hug curtesy of Dean, a kiss from me, a smile from Sammy and Dean's usual line of, "We missed you."

"I missed you too," Mary would reply. After handing me what groceries she might have had, she would pick up Dean, and with big smile, add, "And I couldn't wait to get home to see my big boy." She'd squeeze him, kiss him, and then set him down again and tell him to help her get supper ready.

That repetitive conversation had happened the night she'd been taken from me…

I prepare myself for the emotional battle that usually erupts; it doesn't come. Parental instincts have kicked in and I am able to successfully ward off the potential depression.

I look to my son, bringing him closer to me. "Let me tell you something that my grandpa told me."

"What?" He looks at me, his big hazel eyes staring straight into mine, an inquisitive look in them.

I adjust my arms around him, and take a breath. "I was about your age, and my grandma had been sick for a long time, and one night she died."

"Did you know Mommy then?" Dean asks. I can't help but smile at that. A taste of Dean's curiosity is peeking through. I remember his infamous question of, "why?". He always had to know why Mary, Sam and I had done something. He'd been so inquisitive and I haven't realized how much I've missed it until now.

"No, Dean," I reply. "I didn't know Mommy then."

"Okay," Dean answers. "Were you sad when your grandma died?"

I nod. "Yes, and I missed her very much. But my grandpa told me something that made me feel better."

"What did he say?" Dean whispers. His eyes never leave me.

I can hear my grandfather's voice telling me what I'm about to tell my son. "He said, 'Little boys and Daddies cry with teardrops; Angels cry with roses and rain'."

Dean's eyes narrow in confusion. "What do you mean, Daddy?"

I hear my own four year old voice in that question. I'd asked my grandfather the same thing.

"Mommy's in heaven," I answer, "and when it rains, she's telling us that she misses us. In the Spring, when the roses bloom, that's how she tells us she loves us." Those words seem to simple, but are so hard to say.

"Oh." It sounds like he understands. "But why does she have to wait until Spring to tell us she loves us?" Or maybe he hasn't completely grasped it.

"She doesn't only tell us in the Spring, Dean," I reply. "When it rains, she misses us, and she misses us because she loves us."

"But what about when it's sunny outside?"

That question catches me off guard. I struggle for an answer for a brief moment before taking a breath. "When it's sunny outside, Mommy is happy and she wants us to be happy too."

Those words hit me like a bullet to the heart. They ring thick and heavy with truth. Mary doesn't want me to go on with sleepless nights, wallowing in the memory of that night. She wants me to go on, to take Dean to his T-ball games, his future Little League games. She wants me to be the best father I can be to Sammy, to raise him, send him to school, attend possible football games. She doesn't want what I'm doing now, doesn't want me handling everything the way I am…

The words I'm using to comfort my son, I should be using as an anchor, something to keep me going even though I've lost the only woman I ever have and ever will love…

"So Mommy is always here showing us she loves us?" Dean's voice pulls me out of my reverie.

With a smile, I look to my son. "Yes, Dean. Mommy is always here and she will always show us how much she loves us."

"Even though she's in Heaven," he finishes.

"Even though she's in Heaven," I repeat.

Several minutes go by with just he and I sitting together on the bed in silence. The silence his comfortable – a stark relief to the countless awkward silences that have preceded. I hope I can spend more time with my children just like Dean and I are now – sitting just the two of us. I hope when Sam gets older, he will see me as someone he can always confide in, no matter what may be on his mind. God, I wish - I _hope_  - I can be the father I need to be for my boys…

I look down to the boy still in my arms. "You feel better now?"

Dean nods. "Yeah. Maybe I can tell Sam in the morning and he will feel better too."

I smile. "Yes, you can tell Sam what I told you." I look over to the bedside clock. 2:34am. I turn back to my son. "But if you want to want to tell him, you should go back to bed."

"Okay."

I unwrap my arms. Dean gives me a long hug. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight." I watch him climb down from the bed and start for the door. He turns around in the doorway.

"I love you Daddy," he says quietly.

I smile, the first genuine smile since before my wife died. I guard myself against the approaching tears. I don't think he comprehends how long I've wanted him to say that, how much it means to me to hear it now.

"I love you too, Dean."

With a wave, he walks away, going back to be with his brother. I lay back down and look up at the ceiling.

" _She wants us to be happy._ " That's all Mary ever wanted.

" _I love you Daddy._ " I swallow the threatening tears, but can't force back the smile. If there is one simple phrase, just one thing that would make all my fears and sadness melt away, that's it. The words my eldest son said to me not five minutes ago.

I close my eyes, and with the smile still on my face, drift into a deep, peaceful sleep.


End file.
